


Abominable Snowman My Ass

by girlstilesftw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, POV Stiles, blink it and you miss it angst tbh, i'm a sucker for fluffy fic, nothing heavy, winter so there'll be cuddles and hot chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlstilesftw/pseuds/girlstilesftw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sighing happily, he drags an armchair toward the window before fluffing back his pillows with his hand. He's about to sit when suddenly, his face is being kissed by the coldness of--oh shit--snow. Welp, there goes his fun idea of snow watching. He hears a faint, "oh shit" when he curses some profanities, wiping off the, oh wow he forgets how cold it is, liquid off his face. When his eyes are free from the coldness, he is--almost--dumbfounded to see Derek Hale, in all his glory (and by glory means black leather jacket, dark blue henley--the one with a tiny hole from when Stiles accidentally dented it when he borrowed, dark and very, very tight jeans, and a pair of boots), face grimacing before he steps closer. </p><p>"Uh, sorry about that," Derek scratches the back of his stubble covered neck. Mm, beautiful neck indeed.</p><p>=</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is absolutely sensitive with winter and cold temperature, but Derek doesn't know that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abominable Snowman My Ass

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know guys. I read a short manga that basically saying person A is terribly sensitive of snow and cold temperature and person B didn't know. Then shit happened. Next thing I know, this fic is finished within a week(ish). This is my first fic in the fandom so bear with me please. I apologize firstly if there's any grammatical error committed (I speak English fine, but it's not my first language so), or if I misspelled anything. Comment and feedback appreciated! :)

Stiles... Doesn't  _exactly_  hate the winter. He's just very sensitive of cold weather and snow. It's a thing ever since he's still in diaper days. One time snow poured down heavily in Beacon Hills and both he and Scott--they were five--were overjoyed. They put on layers of clothes before practically rolling around the snow blanketed ground. The next day, Stiles caught a flu and only got better a week later.

So yeah, Stiles Stilinski doesn't have the best track record with snow.

Like he said, it's  _a thing_.

So every year during winter, while everybody has their happy time in the snow, Stiles is bundled up in front of the fireplace with Star Wars reruns. He's just glad whenever his dad is in his night shift, Scott, bless his soul, will come in through the back door and keep him company. Lots of times they involved Cheerios, hot chocolate, World of Warcraft, and Stiles' failed attempt at getting Scott to watch Star Wars with him. Scott's his best bro like that.

Of course, werewolves had to  _'prove'_  themselves they were exist in the form of Derek Hale and his psycho uncle. Then Allison happened and suddenly Stiles' house wasn't the first destination in Scott's list on December--or  _any_  month, really. But it's okay, Stiles and Scott are best bros since they were in their mothers' wombs so if Scott wants to woo his lady, it's fine with Stiles. Besides, Darth Vader will always be with him during the sweater weather.

Stiles is watching a daytime television--they still suck--while the snow is pouring steadily outside. He just got back from Berkeley, the holiday is finally starting and he ignores his dad's and Scott's pleas to stay inside his dorm until snow sticks to the ground.

But because he's a Stilinski, he hardly listens to anyone. So yesterday, he wrapped himself in at least ten layers of clothing, two scarves--one has wolves knit on it, Isaac's masterpiece--two sets of gloves, the warmest, ugliest boots and a beanie. So yeah. He looked like a fucking hobo but totally with better state of clothes. He's just glad nobody saw him coming out of the dorm like that.

Stiles likes to think his insistence of his homecoming is not because of certain sourwolf. No. Ne. Nich. Non.

He's just... Missed his dad. Yeah! He is. Missing his dad. That is. He misses his dad. And Scott. Heh, one does  _not_  forget a certain puppy named Scott McCall. And there's Disney's Snow White known as Allison Argent too! Also there's Erica, his catwoman to his batman. Boyd, who is... Actually, he doesn't have an exact description of what Boyd is to him. And finally, Isaac! Who is like, his own puppy in human form. A puppy who wears tons of scarves everyday.

It has nothing to do with the guy he kissed--and to be kissed back--last year, when he was still a junior in college. Nope, not that Greek god; burly, scruffy with expressive eyebrows who has been the Alpha in Beacon Hills for almost six years.

 _Yeah_ , he thought weakly.

He decides he hates snow. If he's not so sensitive of it, he wouldn't have to sit in front of the TV with daytime shows. If he didn't watch this crappy show, he wouldn't see the main character. If he didn't see the main character, he wouldn't be reminded of certain werewolf. Seriously, why is a handsome-- _yummy_ \--guy like that agrees to play in a shitty soap opera? His acting skill is pretty good, too. He probably would end up in Stiles' browser history later tonight. Eh.

Speaking of browser history, he should probably erase it before someone--namely Scott--could snoop in. It would be awkward to try and explain Scott why was his porn search had one similarity. Why one of the guys was all muscle and six pack, with permanent scowl, and delicious five o'clock shadow.

Well, Stiles decides with a smile, he will  _not_  erase them just to see the mortification in his best friend's face. He suffered years of hearing--he  _still_  does--some  _too-much-information_  of Scott's sex life with Allison. Or worse, how bendy Allison is when it comes to things like that. He had accidentally walked in on them once. It's more than enough to traumatized his poor, pure soul.

After a while, he gets bored--the Derek alike in his television screen is long gone--and his chocolate is no longer hot and he hates snow and he wants to do something. So being the productive guy he is, he shuffles to the window by the front door and open it wide. There's no dad or Scott that could lecture him about the temperature, and this doesn't count as stepping out of the house, so.

Sighing happily, he drags an armchair toward the window before fluffing back his pillows with his hand. He's about to sit when suddenly, his face is being kissed by the coldness of-- _oh shit_ \--snow. Welp, there goes his fun idea of snow watching. He hears a faint "shit" when he curses some profanities, wiping off the--oh wow he forgets how  _cold_  it is--liquid off his face. When his eyes are free from the coldness, he is-- _almost_ \--dumbfounded to see Derek Hale, in all his glory (and by glory means black leather jacket, dark blue henley--the one with a tiny hole from when Stiles accidentally dented it when he borrowed, dark and very,  _very_  tight jeans and a pair of boots), face grimacing before he steps closer.

"Uh, sorry about that," Derek scratches the back of his stubble covered neck. Mm, beautiful neck indeed.

Stiles shrugs, he probably will catch a flu later, but all he says is, "Meh. What are you doing here, Derek?" He's still a teeny tiny bit hurt when Derek pulled out of their glorious first kiss, and said "No. I- I'm sorry Stiles. It's a mistake." so yeah, he can be a little rude to the goober. He's earned it.

Derek's scowl is back on its natural habitat after that. "I was going to check if you're really back but I don't know if you're sleeping or not," he replies, not once looking at Stiles. Or in his direction.

"Oh well, I'm here. I'm not napping so. You can go back to your brooding alone while I'm--"

"Stiles! Why did you open the window? You'll catch that terrible flu!" And that would be Scott. He's stepping out of his mom's toyota with a box of hot pizza in hands. At least something's good is happening today, like how angels must've sent him one of them in the form of Scott McCall and a carton of what smells like Hawaiian pizza. "Oh hey Derek, what's going on? Did something happen?" Scott asks, a few steps away from where the man in question stands frozen ( _heh, frozen_. He'll laugh on the pun later) on his spot.

Stiles knows it's not because of Scott's arrival that the guy is suddenly rigid, but whatever reason it is, Stiles doesn't care.

Rolling his eyes, he moves to close the window, "Yes,  _mom._ " But before it's fully closed, Derek's hand is there to stop it, and damn it. He looks so... Vulnerable. His face looks like a kicked puppy and his bottom lip jutted out in a way a five year old does when he's about to cry.

What he says next startles the younger man.

"I. I'm sorry."

And just like that, the guy runs toward his--Stiles still snickers whenever he sees it--soccer mom toyota. Derek bought it to take and pick Isaac to and from the local college. A  _total_  softie, really.

"Heh, weird," Scott comments after they see the car is gone. Bless his best friend for not questioning it. Scott knows Stiles and Derek has this unresolved sexual tension for years but the shit went to an even shittier state last year, so he's just glad Scott pretends not to acknowledge it until Stiles is ready to spill everything.

But until then.

"So. Star Wars?"

-

Stiles catches the nastiest flu the next day. His head is pounding like someone just hit it repeatedly with a hammer. His throat feels awful, as does his nose. He doesn't need any thermometer to know how burning his skin is.

Awesome.

It's a good thing his shopping spree with Lydia is still a week away.

His dad brought a bowl of soup and two more quilts before his morning shift starts. The soup gone cold on his nightstand, but the quilts are on top of him. One wrapping him like a burrito, the other one to cover himself from feet to neck. He can't text Scott because the guy is having a date with his missus at the local lake. The puppy can barely stands with the skating shoes on, let alone fucking dances in them. But Stiles didn't have the heart to point it out to Scott yesterday as they demolished the pizza in twenty minutes. He just hopes Scott wouldn't accidentally break the iceberg and have a winter swim in the lake. Stiles wonders idly if werewolves could catch a hypothermia when someone knocks on his door.

He expects Isaac or Erica to show up in his room, since they are--unsurprisingly--the third people (they even the position in Stiles' heart) to be the most protective of him. He doesn't expect the number one on that list to show up uninvited through his,  _Jesus please someone record this_ , door.

Derek comes in his room with a pile of scarves and gloves on one hand, one grocery paper bag on the other. Worry etched his face as he strides toward the younger man's bed. Setting the scarves, gloves and paper bag down on Stiles' desk, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand stretched out until it almost touches Stiles' forehead. As if asking for permission. But instead of answering--seriously, he's not sure he gets some voice left right now--he nudges Derek's palm with his sweaty temple, and tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach when he sees the twenty six year old's small smile.

After a while, Derek throws open the quilt, toeing off his shoes, and then wrapping himself around Stiles. It's only later the word spooning registers in his head when he's about to sleep. He can't help it. Derek is the fucking furnace he doesn't know he needed. He'll conquer this flu heroically if the alpha is there for him.

-

When Stiles wakes up, it's getting brighter outside and  _huh_ , he doesn't realize he could sleep that long. His dad probably saw the way he and Derek tangled up with each other--on Stiles' bed,  _oh God_ \--last night when he came home from his shift.

_Derek._

Who is currently awake next to him. One arm curls protectively--and almost possessively--around his middle back, the other rests on top of his chest, it's almost as if he's making sure Stiles is still alive and breathing and living despite the fact that it was just a nasty flu. That was technically caused by Derek. Because the goober just  _had to_  face-planted Stiles with a snow. The older man's body gone stiff as if he could tell Stiles is coming to a closure as why he has to suffer this flu. And yeah, there it is. The look that makes Stiles melts and fucking his heart until it melts into a pile of goo.

He looks so guilty. His guiltiness could probably drown the whole Beacon Hills to no survivor. Because it is that big and deep.

"Hey no," Stiles reaches out, placing his palm on the side of Derek's face, feeling the soft stubble burns underneath him. "It's just a flu. You didn't know about my relationship with cold stuff. I'll get better," he says, and promptly sneezing unattractively.

"But-"

"No buts, Derek. Your unreasonable guiltiness won't make me feel better, so just... Do something useful and be my furnace," he pauses, "Or not. Your call. 'M sleepy." He doesn't realize that he is, in fact, sleepy until he feels his words are slurred out and the gentleness of Derek's caress on his hair and the tenderness of his voice whispering something are the last things he remembered before sleep overtakes him.

-

The next time he wakes up again, it's already another day. Or God just had some fun and decided to freak out the human race with two sunrises. The first thing he notices is there are a set of muscly arms spooned him from behind. They reconnect on the spot just where his public hair stops near his belly button.

Then there's a steady rhythm of someone's breathe against the back of his neck. And, holy shit, is it stubble that tickles his skin currently? And oh,  _oh._

Oh.

He remembers the company he got the other day. He just never thought Derek would stay for him. Being the emotionally stunted the man is. But hey, he stays! And Stiles feels, okay. He feels so fucking much better than he was yesterday. Like, I-think-the-flu's-gone kind of better. He thinks of what he ate--he didn't eat anything yesterday--and what he drank--his dad made him drink Tylenol before he left for his shift to at least help him with his headache, but that's just it.

Holy shit.  _His dad!_

And it's a new morning--again! Which means, his dad probably saw the way he and Derek were--are--wrapped around each other.

"'Top panick'n," Derek's voice is rough--and holy shit--it seems inappropriate to be turned on when he's two seconds away from a major panic attack.

"Not panicking," he wheezes, and that's a lie. His body says otherwise.

"Y'r dad saw me. D'dnt commn't anything. 'S all good. Now back being a good pillow," the older man snuffles against his neck, tightens his arms around Stiles in an almost impossible angle. And Stiles? Well, Stiles almost goes with it. But since his brain  _and_  mouth  _and_  brain-to-mouth filter (or lack thereof) are back, he elbows Derek in the stomach, sitting abruptly.

Narrowing his eyes, he sees Derek stares at him openly, like a five year old staring at his dad after he pretends to kill the monsters under his bed. "You," he jabs his finger on the other man's chest--and man, what a  _firm_  chest, "Are an asshole. What did you mean by 'it was a mistake'? Am I not good enough? Is it because I'm a human? Because hey, that includes racism, you know?!"

There's no respond coming from Derek for a few moments, but the way his face looks stops Stiles from saying "Use your words." He knows he's going to talk, he's just thinking at the moment. Derek is reserved like that. Very unlike himself and his lack of word filter.

"I was just," Derek starts. Breathes out, then continues. "Afraid. Stiles, I've been in bad relationships twice. One of it ended up with my family burned down to the ground. The other almost killed the person I didn't realize mattered a lot than I thought." And that's... A good excuse, he guesses. But he needs Derek to elaborate.

"I saw you, Stiles. I waited for you in the hospitals when you were unconscious for a fucking week because of me. I watched your breath hitched almost every night. And fuck, even your dad got better and the whole pack got better but you? You were still there, unmoving, so fucking silent it almost blew my mind from frustration because I missed you and your voice and those stupid smirks. I was afraid of wanting you more than I allowed myself because it never ends up well with me. I don't want you hurt because of me anymore. But leaving you after that amazing kiss?"

"Stupidest, most idiotic idea you've ever followed in your history of bad ideas?"

That earns him a smile. Not the sarcastic smile he used to get years ago. But the rare, secretive, only someone--read: Stiles--had ever seen type of smile. And it looks fucking adorable and heart-melting and everything Stiles could wish for. He wants Derek to gives that smile to him, and  _only_  him. He wants Derek to wake up next to him like this; hair mussed from the fluffy pillow his head slept on, eyes sleepy and soft, voice rough but soft at the same time. And he wants,  _yearns_ , it all. So hard that he's going out of his mind if he doesn't do anything about it.

So he kisses Derek. Because he can. He doesn't care about Derek's morning breath and frankly, Derek doesn't care about his either. They kisses and kisses some more, hurry and frantic, tongues slip in each other's mouths like it's the last kiss they'd ever shared, teeth biting each other's lips before Derek takes the matter to his own hands--and fucking amazing mouth.

Derek is having his swollen red lips over Stiles' collarbone--he doesn't even remember when his shirt is off (and  _christ_ , he made Derek fucking Hale's lips look like  _that_ )--kissing and biting and sucking until it draws blood before blowing the mark with his filthy mouth and Stiles shudders.

It's probably colder than zero degree outside but his room? Is fucking  _hot_. And it's not because of the heater, either.

He allows Derek to do anything with him, until he can't even form words with his mouth--until all he says is incoherent, unintelligent things--and his brain goes blank for a few moments and he's coming, letting Derek fucks him through it and the older man comes deep inside him.

Stiles sprawls on top of Derek after that. The both of them are almost asleep, with a much thinner quilt covering Stiles' back in case his dad comes home sooner than usual. Derek's hand is stroking and scraping Stiles' skull lightly, and the other one is resting on the dimple of his back, drawing circle motion absently and fuck, Derek looks amazing. He looks so blissed out with his hair sticks to every direction--and it's not from waking up, but from having a makeup/morning sex with Stiles and jesus fucking christ, they just had sex. He'd never thought all of his fantasy of someone--read: Derek--taking away his virginity would actually came true.

He falls asleep with the whole new perspective of the winter. It's  _awesome_. He and Derek have to name their first daughter 'Winter' because it's so fucking awesome it gets her parents together.

**Author's Note:**

> It's canon-compliant but not canon-compliant too. I mean, I pretty much ignore everything after season 3b. AND I refuse to admit Erica and Boyd's deaths because I can. Also, Scott is not an asshole towards Derek in this fic because I love bb scott for as long as I want to. sigh. The part where Derek explained to Stiles about his reasoning etc. was inspired by an AU in a gifset in tumblr where Stiles was asleep in a hospital bed from s. 3b and Derek watches him (and prays for his healthiness. I'm so weak I know). ((also please link me if you happened to know this particular gifset because I don't have a tumblr anymore, ugh).


End file.
